


Love Me Like One of Your French Artists

by OhNoMyBreadsticks



Series: Bready Fills Prompts [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Carl Manfred, Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), But only briefly mentioned, Carl Manfred & Markus Parent-Child Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 07:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19741411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/pseuds/OhNoMyBreadsticks
Summary: Markus has always hated attending his own gallery openings, but maybe this one will be different.





	Love Me Like One of Your French Artists

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XxMcKeNnAxX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxMcKeNnAxX/gifts).



> This was a prompt fill for @Itzmckennaj, who asked for "Maybe a little human Simarkus fluff where Markus is an artist and Simon is a journalist? How about Simon meeting Markus when he had to do an entry on his new gallery? (💙💚)"
> 
> SiMarkus is such a lovely pairing, I really enjoyed playing with Markus as the awkward artist lol.
> 
> Title courtesy of the wonderful as always [thislittlekumquat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thislittlekumquat/pseuds/thislittlekumquat) who by her own admission "cannot and will not be serious about anything ever" 😘

Markus never enjoyed these gallery openings. Sure, he loved sharing his art with the world, and he loved speaking with people, but…he had unfortunately inherited his father’s dislike for pomp and circumstance. The people who came to gallery openings were all the sort of people who looked down their noses at honest discussions of art, and who liked to feel superior by ‘understanding’ only the most expensive pieces. All in all, not the kind of people Markus enjoyed making conversation with. Especially when he could practically  _ feel _ the way they were trying to kiss up to him every time they swooned and gasped over ‘oh what incredible  _ technique _ , you have the Manfred touch after all!’

Like Markus needed more of a reminder of who he was. The Manfred family name was something he was grateful to carry, but it certainly wasn’t a light burden. He thought dimly of how often he had berated Carl for avoiding museum exhibit banquets, and wondered if this was his punishment. Stuck forever in this terribly tight suit with a tie closing up his throat, wishing he could eat a canapé but knowing the minute he did some tabloid would snap a photo and post a terribly unflattering caption all over the internet. It was like Hell and Purgatory all wrapped up into one, and he knew there were hours still to go.

Markus had been idly scanning the crowd, watching the groups of well-dressed people milling about and conversing in hushed tones. That was another thing that irked him about these sort of events. Everyone always whispered, like they were in the presence of someone about to die. Art should be discussed loudly and joyfully, in Markus’ opinion. But no one ever really asked for his opinion on how his art exhibits should be run. What a stupid idea. One person in particular caught Markus’ eye as he scanned again. The man was dressed in a suit that was nice but not nearly as nice as the ones being sported by the other inhabitants of the room. In his hand was clutched a small well-worn notebook, and he was scribbling in it as he looked up at the art piece in front of him.

Perhaps he was desperate for something,  _ anything _ to do, or perhaps he just wanted to see the face that was bent so intently over the notebook, but Markus found himself inexplicably drawn to this man. Before he could stop himself, he was crossing the room to stand next to the other man, politely not craning his head to take a peek at the notebook, despite desperately wanting to. Suddenly struck by the fact that he had approached without having anything to say, Markus cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to invent some excuse.

“Art student, working on a paper?” Markus asked, hating how terrible that sounded as soon as the words left his mouth. Not only that, but it was a clear gamble, given the fact that he was a terrible judge of age. His mouth went completely dry as the young man looked up and fixed him with a piercing blue stare, a curious quirk to his lips that was half smile, half question ready to be formed. Soft blond hair fell in a delicate curve across his forehead like a brushstroke, and Markus’ hand twitched with the desire to brush it further back for him. He was incredibly glad he wasn’t the type to blush easily, because the embarrassment fighting with the sudden realization that this was a beautiful man he had just randomly approached might have pushed him over the edge otherwise.

“Not quite.” the man replied with a soft chuckle, closing his notebook with practiced ease and turning his attention fully towards Markus. It was a clear, conscious shift, and Markus found himself taken off balance by it, trying to regain his footing in a conversation he had been underprepared for. When it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, the blond continued “And you, what are you doing here?” Another curious question, that had Markus furrowing his brow in confusion. “I’m the...artist. I have to be here, I suppose.” He replied, wondering why someone who had come into his art exhibit would ask him that question. Perhaps this man just had terrible facial recognition.

Cocking an eyebrow, the other man repeated “Yes I know you’re the artist, but what are you  _ doing _ ?” The sincerity of the question was enough to make Markus finally deflate and answer in a mumble “Nothing. I’m damn bored, is what I am, of making terrible smalltalk and waiting for people to pass judgement on my work.” The honesty of his words surprised him, usually he was far more guarded and cautious when he spoke to people, especially at work functions. But something about the look on this man’s face had Markus certain nothing bad would come of this. Maybe he was just a sucker for that pretty little smile that was creeping across his lips.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He teased, looking back at the painting in front of them as he said “I expected that kind of honesty from a man who paints with this much emotion. It was enough to make me catch my breath, at first.” Markus wanted to retort that he was the most breathtaking piece in the room right now, but figured that was not only cheesy but incredibly forward of him. Instead, he shrugged, and turned his attention to the painting as well, letting his eyes trace over the familiar strokes and spatters of paint. 

“Would you tell me about it? What you were thinking when you painted this?” A soft voice asked from beside him, and Markus pulled out of his contemplative daze to give the blond a smile. “I’d be more than happy to.” He replied. Even if this was just pity after he had admitted to being bored out of his skull, Markus found himself pleasantly warmed by the request. His thoughts on a piece were usually kept private, save for a few highly edited lines in some magazine or other. He found himself rambling, talking about the layers of paint hidden under one another as he developed the idea, and the ways he had been trying to express to the viewer just what he felt when he thought about the state of their world right now.

The man next to him listened, actually  _ listened _ , nodding along and adding his own soft interjections as they went. For the first time that evening, Markus didn’t mind being quiet. It felt like they were in their own little world, a happy bubble protected from the stuffy conversation and muted glares of the rest of the exhibition. He found himself smiling easily and frequently, even managing a soft laugh when the blond made a particularly funny quip. Markus was so enthralled, honestly, that he didn’t realize just how much time had passed since he came over here. A gentle touch on his arm had him looking down in surprise to see the man holding out a business card with a mischievous smile.

“Here. If you ever feel like talking about art when we’re both not being watched by half a room full of wealthy people.” the man (Simon, his business card proclaimed) said, “Besides, I think it’s time for you to go give your little speech.” He jerked his head towards the small podium over by the refreshment table, where a small crowd was gathering expectantly. Markus was too elated by the fact that Simon wanted to spend more time with him that he couldn’t even bring himself to dread the terrible rehearsed words he was about to rattle off. Journalist, Simon’s business card also proclaimed, and suddenly Markus had to laugh at how terribly off the mark his first guess at Simon’s profession had been. Well, if all journalists were more thoughtful like this one, he may have to start taking more of an interest in what was written about him.

“It would be my pleasure.” Markus replied, taking the offered business card and then the hand holding it. Feeling bold, he pressed a kiss to Simon’s knuckles before stepping away. And the faint pink flush that rose and covered his cheeks...well, now he was definitely the most breathtaking piece in the gallery. Markus would have to tell him that next time.

**Author's Note:**

> blah blah dabid cabbage will one day answer to me for his crimes blah blah
> 
> Thanks for reading, I appreciate and love any support in the kudos or comment boxes <3
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://ohnomybreadsticks.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to chat or see lil updates!


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